The Leash
by SMKLegacy
Summary: Sam/Ainsley sequel to Roses and Afterglow
1. Sam...

**Disclaimers:**  _The West Wing_ and all the familiar faces belong to the creative genius of Aaron Sorkin and to his gifted team of producers and writers.  I've borrowed them for my own amusement and that of others just for fun and because I would rather do this than unpack the boxes I have laying around my new house.

This is a sequel of sorts to the _Roses_ and _Afterglow_ stories, dealing mostly with Sam and Ainsley.

Spoilers – through _Night Five_, and I hope I've gotten the quotes reasonably correct (I recorded the Pairs Long Program over _The West Wing_ before I'd watched it a second time.)

*****

I am Samuel Norman Seaborn.  I am a die-hard Democrat who serves at the pleasure of the President as the chief speechwriter for the best man to sit in the office since John F. Kennedy.  Well, if we're talking personal character, since Abraham Lincoln, who because of the cycles of American politics was more of a modern day Democrat than most members of Congress who claim our party affiliation, even if he ran and was elected as a Republican.  That's not my point.  My point is that I am a Democrat who is in love with a Republican.

Before you say that I need to see a shrink, let me just tell you that the phrase "you need to see a shrink" is decidedly unfunny in this White House.  Besides, it happens.  That Democrats and Republicans fall in love, I mean.  Look at James Carville and Mary Matalin.

No, as a matter of fact, I'd rather you look at Ainsley Hayes and me, because that's what this is all about.  That and probably a bit of Equal Rights and Women's Lib and the Sisterhood, too.

So let me sketch this out, like I'd sketch out a speech before I set to the harder work of making my words sound right coming out of Josiah Bartlett's mouth.

Ainsley came to work for us last year after she made a complete idiot of me on Capitol Beat.  CJ would tell me that there is a falsehood in that statement, because I am the only one capable of making a complete idiot of myself – but she calls me "Spanky", so what does that prove?

Leo thought that Ainsley would make a good addition to the Office of the White House Counsel because she thinks like a Republican.  She is one, so she should know how to prepare us for the opposition party's reaction to things good and bad, or so goes the thinking.

Leo being Leo, he was right, of course.

Okay, so back to the relevant subject.  Ainsley and I have danced around each other ever since she arrived.  I think we both felt the attraction initially, but life in the White House is unpredictable and often not suitable for romance of any kind, especially among co-workers.

And then something fell into place the week before Valentine's Day.

I made Ainsley come back in to work on a speech late one night.  She had been at a Republican fundraiser – a formal fundraiser.  She didn't change before she arrived, so she was still wearing that slinky, open-backed black dress when she walked in.

Well, I, in my inimitable way with words, said, "That dress is enough to make a well-trained dog break his leash."  Take that, Mr. Josh-760 on the SAT Verbal-Lyman!

For a moment, I was sure that I had uttered my last words.

Then she said, "Thank you."

That's all I really care about, although some temp did rake me over the coals for my sexist and degrading attitude, and after I went and tried to apologize to Ainsley for offending her, she did a superb job publicly defending her right to be a feminist who enjoys sexist, degrading remarks that make her feel beautiful.  It was glorious.  It was so Republican that my Democratic blood boiled.  It was so womanly that my manly blood boiled, and that was a lot hotter than the Democratic corpuscles.  I don't know which I dreamed about more that night, her in the dress or her in her sweater and jeans defending herself.  Either way, she was sexy.

The next morning, we met by accident in the Mess.

"Good morning, Sam," she said in that voice that paints pictures of Tara and genteel cotillions in its very accent.  She poured herself a cup of coffee as she smiled at me.

"Good morning, Ainsley."  I smiled back while I poured a cup of coffee.  We were standing very close together.

"Sam," she whispered to my collar, then swept her eyes up to meet mine.  "Sam, I really did like what you said last night."

I could feel myself reddening.  "It wasn't exactly the nicest way I could have told you that you looked radiantly beautiful."

The dimples I didn't know she had until that moment showed briefly.  "Would you like another chance?"  Then she picked up her coffee cup and a danish and moved to the end of the line, where she plunked down a five-dollar bill.  "His, too, please," she said, nodding back toward me.

"You don't have to do this," I replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.  When she just looked at me, I added, "But thank you," and put her stuff and mine together on a tray and carried it to a table in the far corner.

She sat down, and I noticed that the pants she wore were just tight enough to leave everything to be explored in the realms of the imagination.  "You didn't answer my question."

I'm sure I looked at her with a doltish expression for a brief moment before I remembered the query.  "Oh, um, sure, I'd love a chance to upgrade.  You looked ex – "

"Not now," she laughed.  "Sam, take me out Thursday night."

"Okay," I said without even bothering to check my calendar.  I'd make this work.  "Why Thursday instead of Friday?"

The dimples came back.  "Who said Friday is out of the picture?"  She sighed, a delightful, happy sound – very different from the resounding, exacerbated-yet-devoted sigh that Josh hadn't been eliciting from Donna in recent months, although that seems to have reverted to a post-PTSD, pre-MS state in the past few days.  Hmmm….  I'll have to talk with Josh about that.  Anyhow, Ainsley went on to inform me of the significance of Thursday.  "Thursday is February 14."

She invited me out for Valentine's Day.

*****

I actually didn't tell anyone that I had a date with Ainsley on Valentine's Day.  Oh, I told people I had a date – only losers don't have a date on Valentine's Day (and I've been a loser a lot, so I know this) – but I never said who with.  Besides, I think everyone was far too interested in the identity of the sender of the roses on Donna's desk to be concerned with the identity of my date.

I'd like to thank The Rose King someday for relieving some of the pressure.  Thus far, however, this Anthony person that Donna is dating – apparently with Josh's grudging approval – hasn't been seen in person by anyone other than Donna and Josh.  Hmmm…

Okay, back to Ainsley and me.  After a very quiet day at the White House – other than The Rose King Question – and a meeting with Toby and the aforementioned Josh (who got a swelled head because he was "da man" for thirty seven seconds during the meeting) that actually ended right on time, I tried to console Josh about his breakup with that Amy creature and about Donna's date with The Rose King (and Josh not having a date on this particular Valentine's Day doesn't make him a loser, because if he had had a date, it would have been a losing proposition with that Amy creature).  But, being concerned with meeting Ainsley in time for our 8:45 dinner reservations, I rather left him with the advice to stop at 4 beers – and an image of a self-satisfied Toby strolling out for his Valentine's Day non-celebration at home.  I think he and CJ were together, but I'm not about to say that to my boss or to the grown woman who takes great pleasure in calling me "Spanky."

Ainsley's specific request was that we go somewhere where we could both be in formal wear.  "You," she whispered to me in the hallway one day in the middle of a loud, multi-party conversation about an upcoming Senate hearing for one of our judicial nominees, "are the most handsome man I've ever seen in a tuxedo.  I'd like to see you in one on Thursday, so I can wear the dress again."

I think I blushed a little then, but I really reddened when her voice dropped even lower.  "And cummerbunds make excellent leashes."

Thus, my mad dash home to change and then my even madder dash out the door again to meet Ainsley at the restaurant.  I'm not telling where we went, because I don't want to share it with anyone.  Anyway, we agreed that she would take a taxi there and I would drive, then take her home later in the evening.  That way we could have the 8:45 seating instead of the 9:15 seating.

I am quite sure that I didn't put a single coherent sentence together the entire evening.  To be in the presence of such a beautiful woman – inside and out – left me utterly tongue-tied.  Ainsley, however, assured me that I was wonderful company, lively and funny and very sweet.

Since she said that as we lay in her bed the next morning, I have no choice but to believe her.  And since neither of us had much to drink at dinner, obviously we both really wanted to be in her bed together the next morning.

I know when we were dancing after dinner to some wonderful live Big Band music, I certainly thought about being in bed with her.  Holding Ainsley in my arms, she fit against my body as though we were two pieces of a puzzle separated by a jigsaw then fitted back together by fate.  My hands, where they touched the bare skin of her shoulders and back, took on a life of their own as they roamed to the gentle beat of the tunes from the 30's and 40's.  

Ainsley's left arm found its way around my waist under my tux jacket, and a moment later I realized that she had untucked my shirt enough to slide her hand under my cummerbund and in against the bare skin at the small of my back.  I shivered; she smiled and pressed closer into me.

Midnight was our pumpkin hour; we left the restaurant in my car, holding hands the entire 20-minute drive from the evening's venue to her flat on the outskirts of Georgetown.  Neither of us said a word, but the communication in the handholding said everything we needed to.

I walked her to her front door, intending at that point despite the action in the car to go home to a very cold shower.  But when she had unlocked her door and turned back to me, instead of letting me lean in to kiss her, she slid her right hand up under the front of my cummerbund and pulled me with tender urgency into her apartment.  The last words I remember either of us speaking were Ainsley's sly, wanton, "See?  Cummerbunds do make good leashes," as she pushed my coat off my shoulders and wrapped her slender arms around me.

After our lips met, the rest is a blur until I woke up about 3:30 to find her nestled in on my chest, her breath caressing my shoulder and the rise and fall of her breasts against my stomach comforting in the night.

We've been public since the next day.  We're safe enough from intense scrutiny by the press because we work in different areas of the White House, or so CJ says.  Leo concurs, at least enough to congratulate us and to warn us against any public stupidity.

This warning came this morning in a staff meeting, one of the few all-staff meetings we've ever had.  He felt the need after several couples became items over Valentine's Day and the weekend.  "We don't comment on the personal lives of the staff, but I will give those of you who are couples a few guidelines.  Don't fight in public, and don't break up in public.  If you have to do anything in public, a little kissy-face and a little canoodling is okay, but no… tonsil hockey?  I think that's what they're calling it these days… and certainly nothing that you wouldn't want to see yourself doing in the newspaper."  Hearing Leo say "tonsil hockey" has been the funniest part of the day, by far.

Josh, perhaps jealous that he isn't a recipient of this warning, had been walking around looking for people who are engaged in "kissy-facing and/or canoodling."  Donna caught him playing sex police and dragged him into his office at one point after lunch; whatever she said to him got through, because he isn't playing sex police anymore.

Come to think of it, he's walking around with a stupid grin on his face.  Oh, wait, I'm talking about Josh, so that's normal.  Or is it just a tad more on the satiated side?  Hmmm…

The world has been quiet in the most bizarre way since Thursday, so no crises arose that required one or both of us to appear at work over the weekend.  Ainsley and I thus had an entire weekend to ourselves.  We spent most of it in bed, sleeping and making love in about equal proportions.  There was also dinner on the kitchen floor Saturday night, inspired by _9½ Weeks.  _I will never think of grapes the same way again.  I'm certainly never going to eat grapes in public again – which of course guarantees that grapes will be featured prominently on the menu at the next State dinner.

I cannot predict the future.  For all I know, the world has already gone to hell in a hand basket and no one has bothered to tell us yet.  For the moment, I am content to be in love with a Republican who is everything I have ever wanted and needed in a woman.  

I can hope, however, that I am this content tomorrow, next week, next month, next year – all because this wonderful new woman holds my leash.


	2. Ainsley

My name is Ainsley Hayes.  I am a born and raised conservative Republican who believes that the Equal Rights Amendment is a totally unnecessary affectation of a nation that can't read its own Constitution – specifically, the 14th Amendment thereto.  I work at the White House.  I am in love with one of my co-workers.  Did I mention that I'm the only Republican on staff at a very liberal Democratic White House?

Yes, I, the woman once voted "Most Likely to Belt Helen Gurley Brown on Principle", am in love with a Democrat.  Not just any Democrat, either.  No, I'm in love with the President's primary speech writer – the one who crafted what even I have to admit was one of the best State of the Union speeches in recent history just last month.

Can ya'll tell that I'm still slightly amazed by this fact?

Not the speech – the fact that I'm in love with the man who wrote it.  Samuel Norman Seaborn, Attorney at Law, Presidential Speechwriter, and Liberal Democrat, is the man still sleeping peacefully in the bed across the room while I sit here trying to make sense of all this.

It's been two weeks and a day since Valentine's Day, when the magic finally happened for both of us at the same time.  It had been building for a while. 

The penultimate stone in the arch we have now built was Sam's adoring comment about me looking so sexy in my backless black dress that a well-trained dog would break his leash to get me.  What I liked about that comment – despite what some others who bang the Feminist drum might think – is that it makes me superior to Sam, as is properly the case.  Any man who calls himself a dog when complimenting a woman is definitely clued in to the truth about gender relations.

Okay, that's not really why I liked the comment.  Really, it was the fire in Sam's eyes as he looked at me – and he was looking into my eyes when he said what he said, not at my breasts or my backside or my lips.  That was bold of him.

I was bold enough to ask him out for Valentine's Day the next morning.  He said yes.

I also asked him in for Valentine's Day.  Well, if one were to cross-examine me, I'd have to admit that I really gave him no choice in the matter.  Not that he complained, mind.  Nor has he, since.

The past two weeks have been utterly amazing.  We have grown closer than I ever thought two human beings could be.  We have shared the most intimate secrets of our souls, things no one else has ever known.

I told him about the date rape I endured in college.  Only the therapist who helped me cope knew until I told Sam, crying as I did so.  He held me in his arms and wiped my tears, not saying any of the usual stupid things people say when someone is crying.  Instead, he asked me if I still needed the closure of a trial – because if I did, he would devote his energies to sending the man away for a very long time.  I wish I could take him up on that offer, but I explained to him that the man in question was later murdered by a jealous husband after the husband caught his wife and my attacker _in flagrante dilicto_.

"But I love you for offering," I told him, and kissed him.  And a lot more, too.

He told me about his fiancée, the whole story that even Josh doesn't know in detail.  He was so hurt by the whole situation, by her lack of understanding that he needed to follow his ideals, and by his own inability to explain it so she could understand.  I think what hurt him most, however, was that it was so easy in the end to leave her behind.  Because that's what he did; I could see that the day of the State of the Union, the few times that I saw her as she shadowed Sam for the day.

He has also shared two other truly intimate things with me, and I am the first human being other than Sam to know these things about him.  The first would not be any big deal to reveal to others; he just prefers to keep it private.  The second, well…

The first one is that Samuel Norman Seaborn considers the making of hot chocolate to be a sacramental celebration.  Really.

He showed me earlier tonight why this is the case.

"You have pure cocoa, sugar, and milk – whole milk, mind you, not 2%, 1%, or, God forbid, skim – when you start."  With that, he carefully measured three cups of milk into a saucepan.  Then he began scooping cocoa powder into the pan.  Perhaps I should say "ladling" cocoa powder into the pan, because these were the most heaping spoons I have ever seen.  I lost count at 8 of these mammoth mounds.  He would have ladled the sugar, too, but sugar doesn't heap the way flour and cocoa do – I lost count at 14 spoons of sugar.

In the pan, there were, it seemed, equal parts milk, cocoa, and sugar.  Truthfully I was thinking chocolate syrup was a more likely outcome than hot chocolate.

"The we turn the heat on very low and begin to stir, gently yet thoroughly, constantly and carefully."  He set to the blending with his special whisk reserved only for the purpose of making his hot chocolate.  "And you will see, in about 10 minutes, that we no longer have milk and cocoa and sugar, but a nectar of exquisite purity that can only be a libation to the gods.  Transubstantiation in the ritual of the mixing."  Sam grinned at me.  "_Hoc est enim cioccolata fervena meae."_

"Should I ring a bell?" I asked, eyes wide and innocent.

He looked at me with his deep brown eyes twinkling.  "You already ring my bell."

For the record, the hot chocolate was truly the very best I have ever had, and miraculously, it really was hot chocolate rather than chocolate syrup.

That's not embarrassing at all.  In fact, I think it's rather nice.  But I like the shared meaning, so I'll keep that secret.

The second one, well, ya'll won't believe it.  I've seen it and I don't – I had no idea I could trump Doubting Thomas.

Sam records 5 hours of television every week.  He won't watch the tape unless he's reasonably sure that he'll be able to watch the whole tape in one sitting, so sometimes he has 3 or 4 tapes stacked up to watch.

What's on these tapes?  Five hours a week – it has to be a soap opera, maybe _Days of Our Lives_ or _The Young and the Restless_, right?

Wrong.

_Oprah?_

Wrong.

_Jerry Springer?_

Wrong.

_Rosie?_

I wish.  Think Public Television.

_The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer?_

One would hope, but wrong.

_Are You Being Served?_

Again, I wish.

_Sesame Street?_

Oh, come on.  That's the funniest show on television besides _Frasier_.  Keep thinking.

_Read Between the Lions?  Arthur?  Dragon Tales?_

No, none of the above, although you're in the right genre.

_Barney!?_

Even worse.

Yes, really.

Samuel Norman Seaborn watches the _Teletubbies_.

It gets even more disturbing.  He knows them all by name and color and sings their silly songs with them.  I know this because I witnessed it.  Ten hours worth – okay, it was only 8 by the time we fast-forwarded through the sponsorship information and the coming attractions.  But it was still 7 hours, 59 minutes, and 30 seconds too much for me.

Why does Sam watch the _Teletubbies_?

Surprisingly, Sam actually has a good answer – even for this Republican gal.

It seems that his fascination with the _Teletubbies_ began on the day in February, 1999 that Jerry Falwell (who, for the record, _does not_ reflect the opinions of every conservative Republican **_or_** of every conservative Christian!) announced that Tinky Winky is gay.  More accurately, the _National Liberty Journal_ pronounced the sentence and Falwell concurred.  Sam decided that anything that would get the conservative right so worked up deserved a look-see for policy purposes, so he tuned in to the toddlers' program just to check it out.

And promptly decided that the four ridiculously colorful characters with the televisions in their tummies were funny, sweet, and innocent (red handbags, purple skin and triangular antennae included) – three things he didn't have nearly enough of in his life.  So he added them.

He also admitted to checking out _The Little Mermaid_ and _The Lion King_ frame by frame just to see if there was any credence to the _NLJ_ contentions about them.  There wasn't, as even I could have told him.  I mean, I personally think Falwell is a bad spokesman for our cause because he's a comic figure when he does stupid things like that.  There are so many more important things than the sexual preference of a children's television character or the presence (or absence) of subliminal sexual messages in an animated movie.

Back to Sam.  He has sworn me to absolute secrecy on pain of thorough, public embarrassment in kind (he says he'd think of something) if I ever, ever tell anyone about the _Teletubbies_.  I'm thinking that a note to Josh to be opened before the Best Man's toast at our wedding reception would be good…

Oh, did I just say, "our wedding reception"?

Yeah, honey, he's the one.  I've got him on the leash for life.


End file.
